Wednesday, March 21, 2012

In response to this post, we interrupt the regularly scheduled stream of gubbins to bring you some fiction. Yeah, you heard me. Be afraid, it's story time...

The Challenge: Write a short story. I don’t care how short, or what kind of story,
or even what form your story takes. BUT… your story, poem, dirty
limerick or whatever you choose to do must incorporate within it in some
way the following words;

juicy

slender

vain

shaft

torch

star

hidden

Bearing all this in mind, we present our brief vignette. Required words are bolded :D

==

The Greatest Reward of All.

Her slender hand wrapped around
his, and any words became redundant. Closing his eyes, the past was
back where he wanted it, no longer impeding his present. Her skin on
his, the warmth of the touch, the simplest of gestures that meant
more than anything in the world.

He was home again.

They sit, bodies almost touching,
still not ready to make contact anything more complicated than this,
and remain in silence as the boat is being unloaded. He is still
in his armour, having merely removed his helmet while he almost ran
from the jetty to be with her, needing to revel in the sensation of
what it was like to not be fighting for his life. He hears her
quietly inhale, her body tensing as they carry the first body bag up
and out from the hold. Then there is a sob, one of the gathered crowd
closer to the quay losing their composure and crying unhindered. The
Stormwind Standard draped across the canvas bag ripples and flutters
in the early morning breeze, before returning to rest. Even the gulls
know this is no time for chatter.

The bells from the Cathedral begin,
tolling the cost of Deathwing's demise.

He'll keep his fear hidden for
now, the very real understanding he is lucky to return here at all.
Wyrmrest is in tatters, the Accord decimated. The few that return
from the North with him know just how large the cost has been, what
is yet to be counted in this latest blow to the Alliance Forces.
There have been too many battles and not nearly enough easy victories
in the previous seasons. Salvaging anything positive is a bonus: it
has been that way since Arthas fell. He can't even tell her that the
Prince of Menethil has been finally put to rest, no-one must ever
know who now wears the Crown of the Lich King. Stormwind's greatest
hero made the ultimate sacrifice to allow him to be here, to sit by
her side, and without him no-one on Azeroth would have been left to
assist Thrall in dispatching the errant Aspect of Earth.

He opens his eyes and turns to look at
her, face illuminated by the rays of early morning sun.

Her memory had sustained him in the
darkest of days, the torch he had carried as inextinguishable
illumination. He needed to survive so he could tell her the stories,
because he knew she would demand every juicy detail in the
telling: no skipping, never any skimping. They would sit in the room
above her father's shop talking by candlelight, or by day beside the
Canals whist she repaired the never-ending stream of Military
clothing with skill and care. She was always listening, never
without an insightful response: as sharp as the needles she always
carried, the silver shafts with which she plied her craft with
such ability and ease. Hidden in his heart, safe from swords and
claws, was the understanding that she was all he ever wanted, that
her love was the only real defence he needed. He must return to her,
to tell these stories. All the rewards, all these achievements were
in vain, nothing without someone to share them with.

Without her, he had no meaning at all.

The war in Kalimdor was intensifying,
he'd heard the Officers talk of an atrocity in Stonetalon on their
return from Northrend. The new enemy was still our oldest foe. At
some point, not long from now, it would come back to the Blue
Standard against the bloody Red Banner. Us versus Them. The Horde's
star was rising, Garrosh's dreams of power becoming less about
posturing and more about domination, subjugation. Even the Horde's
own people felt the depth of the new Warchief's anger... but for now,
the rest of the world could wait.

He closes his eyes again and feels the
warmth of her hand in his. This is all he needs to feel complete.

Beautifully done! As players, going into Dragon Soul for fun and epic lootz and whatnot, I think it's easy to forget what the defeat of Deathwing would really mean for the people who actually live in that world.